


Nairomi

by EllenD



Series: Intrepid [1]
Category: Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice, DCU
Genre: Alternate Universe, Established Relationship, M/M, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-04
Updated: 2016-05-06
Packaged: 2018-06-06 07:58:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6745882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EllenD/pseuds/EllenD
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In an AU where Clark Kent is just Clark Kent and Bruce Wayne is still Batman, intrepid reporter Clark gets into a bit of trouble and needs his ever-watchful superhero guardian to rescue him. In a nutshell: Clark Kent is Batman's Lois Lane in this re-imagining of the Nairomi sequence in Batman vs Superman movie.</p>
<p>With lovely fanart by <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/users/Albilibertea/pseuds/Albilibertea">Albilibertea</a> <a href="http://p0werbottomsuperman.tumblr.com/post/145408040545/you-have-me-he-said-when-he-looked-back-up">here</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Desert

**Author's Note:**

> No profits made, no copyright infringement intended!

“They’re tracking us!”

 

The butt of a rifle impacted between Clark’s shoulder blades, knocking the breath out of his lungs and sending a jolt of pain down his spine. He hit the ground on one knee and nearly used his hands to keep from faceplanting, but the guns pointed at his and Lois’ heads kept them high up, palms open. Rough hands patted him down, pulled at his jacket pockets, ripping out wallet, papers, phone, and a half-finished pack of cough drops.

 

“Clark, what’s going on?” Lois whispered urgently beside him.

 

_I don’t know_ , he mouthed back.

 

“He’s military!” the scowling second-in-command reported, pointing the muzzle of his AK uncomfortably close to Clark’s nose. He waved a fistful of ID cards in the air. The words _Kent_ , _VA_ , and glimpses of glasses and a slight overbite flashed in glossy plastic under the sweltering Nairomi sun.

 

“I’m just a civilian now!” he cried out in English, then in Swahili. “I’m a reporter!” 

 

He gestured helplessly at the remains of his camera strewn across the ground and the still-blinking tracker amidst the wreckage. “I had no idea… We had nothing to do with this.” If the gun inched any closer, it’d be up his nostril soon.

 

He glanced at Lois, who was kneeling beside him, white-faced. Someone had snapped the lanyard around her neck and ripped the scarf from her head, her hair tumbling down her shoulders in a scandalous cascade. She flinched when a heavy hand landed on her shoulder. The Warlord. The smug, maybe terrorist, Mr. I-have-nothing-but-love-for-my-people. She shrugged his hand off with a glare.

 

“Ignorance,” said the most powerful man in Nairomi, as he sauntered between the two Americans, “is not the same as innocence. Is it, Ms. Lane?” He touched a lock of her hair, vicious and playful at the same time.

 

He had a pistol in his hand, one that Clark noted vaguely that he couldn’t immediately ID. And Clark had an eye for firearms.    

 

“Someone must’ve bugged us without us knowing,” said Clark, talking loud and fast so that he drew the warlord’s attention away from Lois. “The CIA, maybe. They used the Daily Planet, they used us to get to you. I _swear_ to you, we didn’t know, _we didn't know_.”

 

The warlord’s expression was dangerous as he squatted down to look Clark in eye. “I don’t care what you didn't know. And what you _do_ know, I will extract from you.”

 

Clark looked sideways at his partner. She was to his left, about 10 feet away from a good solid pile of crates, about 8 feet high. Three strides. Temporary cover. From there, a straight dash to the open gates of the compound. She could make it if she was fast, and if he distracted them. He exhaled slowly, then gave her a tiny nod. She blinked back at him, eyes widening in comprehension. _No_ , she mouthed.

 

“Now here’s what’s going to happen to you and your lady reporter-”

 

Clark launched off his knee and cut him off midsentence with a body slam. “Run, Lo!”

 

A shot discharged near his ear. He slammed the heels of his palms into the guy’s wrist in a twisting motion, snapping the pistol out of his hand and probably the trigger finger too. Lois was a blur in his periphery, running as bullets pinged off the ground around them, as he grappled with the soldier for the gun.

 

He fancied he almost had the upper hand until someone from behind landed a kidney punch (unsporting, really), flooring him. A bag slammed over his head, blotting out a sea of furious faces. The world turned into a flurry of boot heels, rifle butts, and curses as he was dragged backwards, far away from the only exit. After a particularly vicious blow to the solar plexus that left him doubled over and struggling not to vomit into a burlap sack that already smelled like vomit, the unmistakable click of a gun being cocked and the feel of cold metal on his forehead made him freeze.

 

So that was it. Well, at least he’d go down fighting with toenails intact, not screaming for mercy as they pulled them from his feet. Not crying in the dark… _never again_ … 

 

They forced him on his knees. He closed his eyes, only hoping that Lois had made it. And, of course, regretting that he never got to say goodbye to…

 

The shot never came. Instead, the sky split open with a roar like thunder. Expect, he knew it wasn’t thunder, but a 12-cylinder turbocharged jet engine.

 

He found himself shoved unceremoniously to the ground as the gunfire now concentrated upwards, and the shouts around him grew less angry and more panicked.

 

There was a series of metallic thumps, the sound of magnetic discs thrown from a height and attaching to the barrels of guns. Then, a string of muffled explosions. The crack of a single precision rifle, the clank and snap of a grapple hitting the eaves of a roof, the twang of steel cable. There was no more gunfire after that, just the sound of wind rushing against great, black wings. A creature of the night, landing in the desert sun. 

 

Silence. Through cracked lips and a sack that smelled like blood and vomit, he smiled. A second later, all he could hear were blows and screams of pain. 

 

By the time Clark had managed to pull the bag off his head and heave himself into a sitting position, _he_ was already the last one standing.

 

The world was blurry. He’d lost his glasses somewhere. His head swam when he tried to stand, but he didn't get the chance to fall on his rear before gauntleted arms were around him.

 

“Are you hurt?” came the deep growl that haunted the nightmares of Gotham criminals, but all Clark heard was the heartbreaking concern of the man beneath.

 

“I’m fine,” he wheezed. “Lois… get Lois.”

 

He was set gently down, then Batman was gone with a swish of cape. A distant murmur came from somewhere beyond the walls of the compound, then the whirr and twang of the bat grapple as Lois was pulled to safety.

 

Mr. One-question-begs-another was groaning somewhere to his right. Alive, but defeated. Clark considered punching him in the head, but Mom taught him better than to punch a man’s head when he’s down (or at all, if possible). He settled for an intense, near-sighted scowl instead.

 

He’d found his glasses by the time Batman came back for him. Cracked again. It was a prismatic figure that tenderly took his face, turning it this way and that to check for head trauma, carding a gloved hand through his hair, then holding him, pressing him against an armored torso. Was it Bruce trembling, or himself?

 

“I’m fine,” said Clark. “I’m fine now. You’ve got me.”

 

“I’ve got you.” He held Clark closer, tightly and yet so gently that not a single bruise was pressed, not a single injury aggravated. “Never again,” Bruce whispered into his hair.

 

Careful fingers plucked the broken glasses from Clark’s face, tucked them into a pouch on Batman’s utility belt for safekeeping.

 

Clark felt something being clipped to his belt, something cinched around his waist.

 

“Ready?”

 

Clark buried his face in Bruce’s shoulder, gripping powerful biceps, and let himself tremble for a moment. Later, there’d be work to do. There’d be evidence to gather, bullets lifted off the ground with tweezers, a tracking device to pick apart and trace, investigations made, conspiracies unraveled, possibly heads broken, then angry words yelled across the coffee table about recklessness and stubborn Smallville stupidity, and on top of everything else, a pair of glasses to fix. But for now, he was safe. He lifted his head, smiling. “Yeah.”

 

And then they were flying.

 


	2. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A small epilogue to the first chapter, which was originally meant to be a one-shot, with some hints of what's to come.

Some part of him knew he was dreaming, that it was nothing but a nightmare of a memory of a nightmare, but coming out of it was like rising from a pool with cinderblocks tied to his feet. The darkness surrounded him, thick and cold and dirty. He ate and breathed it. It crept into his bones, suffocating and consuming, and beyond it, always present, maniacal laughter…

_Clark, wake up_.  _You’re dreaming…_

He jerked awake. There was a rushing sound in his ears, as if he’d risen from being submerged in a bath.

“Clark?”

Bruce’s face, lined with worry, loomed above him. His hand was on Clark’s shoulder, mid-shake.

He exhaled slowly. Wiped the sweat from his face. “I was…”

“I know,” Bruce said gently.

“It was…”

“Yeah. I know.”

It was five days after the Nairomi debacle. They were back at the lake house, a fire crackling in the grate, the water and sky outside a sulky slate gray. It had been two days of mostly sleeping and peeing blood. Two more days of walking around with an IV attached to his arm and a phone attached to his ear, Perry on the other end of the line, alternating between concerned yelling and pissed-off yelling. A day of working feverishly on the Planet-issued laptop and the long-awaited fight with Bruce.

_You were almost_ killed _, Lois was_ shot, _they were literally seconds away from executing you, does that mean_ nothing _to you?_ The word _nothing_ had been punctuated with a fist to the tabletop. _Does your life mean nothing?_

_Look, I knew the risks going in…_

_That’s not the point!_

And then, the nightmare.

“It’s ok,” soothed Bruce, hand sliding between Clark’s head and the pillow to cradle his skull. His thumb stroked a bruise-mottled cheek. “You’re safe. I’m here with you.”

Clark turned his face to nuzzle into Bruce’s palm. Then grimaced. The nightmare had snuck up on him, unexpected. What was wrong with him? Nairomi was hardly the first time he’d been held hostage in the line of duty. It wasn’t even the first time since _that time_ , so why were the bad dreams creeping up now?

“I’m ok,” he said determinedly, and kissed the callused mound of Bruce’s thumb. He glanced at the clock and saw that it was already 10:30. He hadn’t meant to sleep so late. He wiggled into a sitting position and saw that Bruce was freshly shaved and washed,  shirt buttoned but untucked, feet bare. He smelled clean and warm. Was he freshly showered after a punishing workout that would’ve killed a weaker man? Or a long night in Gotham, with blood drying on his knuckles?

“What’s that?” said Clark, pointing to the brown paper bundle under Bruce’s arm.

A wry smile. “Package from Smallville.” He tossed it into Clark’s lap.

Clark grinned as he ripped it open with childlike abandon. A gold disk the size of his palm fell onto the bedspread. He groaned, laughing. “Another chocolate Pulitzer from Mom.”

He held it up so that it glinted dully in the morning light. “Too bad we weren’t able to finish the Nairomi story,” he said. He sighed, and let the candy drop. It rolled a few inches before flopping soundlessly onto the mattress. “Won’t be getting any awards that aren’t edible. There’s always next time.”

“Next time?” Bruce echoed, voice suddenly tight. The mattress dipped as he shifted his weight to face Clark. “Batman might not be around to save you next time. What then?”

Clark sighed. Had the man across from him always looked so weary? So intense yet so vulnerable? He ran a gentle hand over the graying temples, the creased eyes, the well-beloved jaw. “It’s not Batman I need. I need _you_.”

_Bruce, I trust you with my life, but I_ need _you to trust me with my own life too!_

_Well that’s a little hard to do when you’re recklessly endangering yourself and-_

_Oh,_ I’m _reckless? That’s rich, coming from you. Cracked tibia, two broken ribs, contusions on your goddamn kidneys, and that was just last Monday. How the hell do you think_ I _feel every time_ you _limp back here at half-past-_

_That’s not the same thing!_

_Isn’t it?_ He’d nearly screamed that question. _You’ve been saving the world one thug at a time in Gotham for 20 years. That’s who you are. That’s your way. Well, this is my way.  I_ need _you to understand that._

Bruce curled his hand over Clark’s, bowed his head over it, kissed the knuckle of his ring finger. “You have me,” he said. When he looked back up, his eyes were fierce, an echo of Batman’s dark fury. “You will _always_ have me. But will I always have you?”

He rarely said “I love you,” though Clark knew he did with every fiber of his being. For Bruce (the real Bruce, not the handsome, glamorous superficial version that flirted with supermodels and spoke of love in the same tone he spoke of his favorite sports car), love was an action, not an emotion. It was a promise, not a feeling. It was an oath to endure anything, sacrifice anything, destroy anything. _I have you_ was more potent than _I love you_ ;  _you are mine_  had always been more meaningful than _you are beautiful._

“Bruce,” he whispered helplessly.

Sighing, Bruce dropped Clark’s hand and strode from the room. “I’ll be downstairs,” he said curtly, shutting the door loud enough to echo, but not quite a slam.

Clark waited until his footsteps disappeared before snatching up his glasses from the nightstand, slipping them on, and dialing Lois’ number on his work phone.

She picked up on the third ring. “How’re you holding up, Smallville?”

“Never mind me, what about you?”

“I’ve had worse.”

He shifted the phone to his other shoulder, flung aside the covers, retrieved a folder and a stray pencil from a nearby shelf. Fired up his laptop. Listened cautiously for Bruce’s footsteps in the kitchen downstairs.

“How’s the investigation going?” he murmured into the phone.

“Making progress. The bullet in my leg _mysteriously_ disappeared from the evidence locker after they dug it out at the hospital. Fortunately, I found another one, embedded in my journal. Must’ve caught a stray bullet during the firefight. Crime lab boys took a look and guess what they found?”

“Tell me.”

“Nothing. No trace. Not sold anywhere commercially in the world, including the black market.”

“I see. Is there any chance we can trace it back to…?”

“I’m almost sure we can. If we can prove it, we’ll be able to expose him and the entire operation. Can I send it your way? Batman has the resources to help us.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it again. Caught himself twisting his ring, a surefire tell that he was troubled by domestic affairs. Each twist of the metal band brought back the Fight a little clearer, as if he were winding it back so he could play it forward like a film. He remembered Bruce looking almost broken, head in hands, as their argument finally wound down the other night. _I made you a promise once,_ he’d said, voice hoarse from shouting. _Back then… after what happened. Do you remember?_

_Yes. I do._ His own voice had been high and cracked, like a child that was about to start wailing.

_Never again. I swore that to you, never again. But how can I keep it when you won’t let me?_

He cleared his throat. “It might be best to leave Batman out of this one. For now.”

“Clark?”

“I just think that’s for the best.”

“I do have other sources, but… this might be the best chance we ever get to expose Luthor. Don’t you understand? We can finally make them pay for what they did to you.”

The darkness pushed against the recesses of his memory. He could hear it creeping up, hungry. In the distance, laughter. He could feel it bubbling, like boiling soup. He closed his eyes, forced it to pass.

“It’s not about me,” he said with a dry throat.

He head footsteps coming down the hall, the clinking of glasses. “Lo, I have to call you back.”

Bruce entered, bearing a tray and an almost apologetic smile. Late breakfast for a late riser. There was even a freshly cut rose in a vase.

Clark felt himself beaming and let himself fall back into bed, bouncing. They had toast and eggs sunny side up. Grilled slices of avocado. Orange juice and black coffee. They wiped up perfect yellow yolks with crunchy toast, passed bites between each other.

“You should be resting,” said Bruce, glancing at the pile of papers on the nearby writing desk. Clark reached out and swept it all to one side, hiding Lex Luthor’s dossier and LexCorp’s annual earnings report.

“I will if you join me.”

For now, the darkness had receded. There were strong arms around him, pulling him into sheets that smelled of sweat, coffee, and warm body. They held the world outside, and all the darkness in the universe, at bay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading!!! After this, I have a dark-ish multi-chapter prequel planned, about how a dorky journalist from Metropolis started dating dashing billionaire Bruce Wayne. Clark, being a Lois Lane-type character, will obviously get into a ton of trouble and needs Batman to do some swooping and rescuing. As always, feedback always appreciated!!

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks very much for reading! Feedback much appreciated :D


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